IN BLACKWATER WOODS
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it:
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
Mary Oliver
When my wife and I went to Korea this fall, one of the few books I decided to bring was Mary Oliver’s Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver. I have now finished the 440 pages of Oliver’s poems organized reverse chronologically, from the latest (2015) to the earliest (1963). This explains why I am highlighting Oliver’s poems exclusively this December. I must have marked at least two dozen of her poems by the title which was my way of reminding me that these poems require future visits. Oliver was keenly in love and awe of nature. She deeply admired nature and paid attention as if her life depended on it.
This poem draws another set of lessons (from the previous week’s poem) of human experiences from trees and forests Oliver loved. Fire broke out in Blackwater Woods situated in Cape Cod National Seashore in Massachusetts which she frequented. Oliver has first six stanzas devoted to the devastation and loss which she coins “whose other side is salvation.” This insight is an unexpected and stunning observation. I relish her humility when she wrote that the “meaning none of us will ever know.” I do not know how salvation (not as in “going to heaven” but as in how we live this life more fully) happens, but it can happen. If salvation is only restricted to going to heaven and we do not experience salvation in this life, then I do not know what is more futile and depressing than that.
At the risk of sounding slightly tangential, in recent weeks, I have been pouring into various podcasts and YouTube regarding N. T. Wright’s most recent book, Into the Heart of Romans: A Deep Dive into Paul’s Greatest Letter. I have not read the book yet (I am contemplating whether to purchase one) but one of the main points of the book revolves around the misunderstanding of taking Romans 8 as a significant chapter on salvation (as in going to heaven). Wright argues that Paul is not addressing salvation as how we interpret salvation from our vantage point, but Paul is essentially addressing “vocation”—the fact that we are called to participate in being the image bearers of God in this life.
In Oliver’s mind, perhaps, salvation in this current life comprises three things: “To love what is mortal, to hold it as your own life depends on it, and to let it go when it is time.” I admire Oliver’s keen insight flowing out of her integrated life—her outer and inner life seamlessly connected. Living well on this earth stands as proof of our salvation, Oliver seems to be saying. To interlay Wright’s observation, living well–participating in being God’s image bearers in this life—is our vocation in this world which reflects our salvific life.
I think of my adult children, especially as my wife and I are about to “leave the nest.” Some have correctly observed that we are doing the exact opposite of what grown-up children usually do. As a parent, loving what is mortal effortlessly zeroes in on our children. In all of my life, I have tried to love them as unconditionally as I could as if my life depended on it, with many shortcomings and failures. While my desire and responsibility to love remain and perhaps even increased, in recent years, my wife and I have been learning to let them go, let them go as it is time. Letting go of what we love ultimately involves death (as in the poem), but it is also a proven mature spiritual practice to die before we die. We let go so that they can be free to be and become who they are meant to be as God’s unique image bearers, without our meddling and sprinkling even “good” pieces of advice. As I realize that I am not an extension of my parents’ lives and expectations, I, too, have to embody the realization toward my children.
While I was never a helicopter dad, I did have unspoken amorphous images, projections, and “prayers” for my children. It is not lost on me that letting them go is not even for my children’s benefit but for mine. By letting go, I am also free from my own “good” illusions and expectations. Freedom is experienced all around—we all get to live more freely, experiencing salvation on this earth.